


Tread carefully into my life

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Cigarettes, Conversations, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, Morse's unhealthy relationship with alcohol, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Peter is also developing an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, Rating May Change, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Tigers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: He can't help the way his eyes drift across the room, to Morse in his shirtsleeves, arms crossed across his body. Its a defensive posture, which is no surprise, but otherwise he looks collected. Calm. Like facing down man eating beasts is all part of the job, and despite the evidence of today, it most certainly is not part of the job.Tigers. For the love of God, give him an axe murderer any day.





	1. Series 3: Prey and Coda

**Author's Note:**

> This fic explores Peter and Morse's relationship written in the spaces left by the episodes. It just kept growing. Originally it was called 'Moments' because that's what it was - and now I'm covering every episode, it's my longest ever fanfic, and I turned to poetry for the title (Tread Carefully by Sanober Khan). 
> 
> 5 chapters for 4 seasons, plus an interlude covering the big time gap between seasons 4 and 5. I've written a big chunk already but not all chronologically - AO3 was about to delete my saved draft of this chapter so I'm posting now. I'll try to post updates in a relatively timely fashion! Having said that I am going away so the next chapter will be in a week or two at least. 
> 
> Each section will start with the episode name, and you'll find it helpful to have seen each one because I don't really go into the backstory :)
> 
> Anyway - enough rambling - onto the fic. I hope you enjoy it!

**Prey**

He can't help the way his eyes drift across the room, to Morse in his shirtsleeves, arms crossed across his body. Its a defensive posture, which is no surprise, but otherwise he looks collected. Calm. Like facing down man eating beasts is all part of the job, and despite the evidence of today, it most certainly is _not_ part of the job.

_Tigers_. For the love of God, give him an axe murderer any day.

They've got it under control here; he's just another person crowding the room. That woman says she only wanted to scare the bloke, and Morse's little head tilt – he just needs to get out. He might only have been coordinating rescue efforts from the driveway but this whole thing has left him jittery, and he needs a cigarette.

He's smoked one half away, deep draughts burning it quicker than usual when he hears footsteps. He tenses - but of course he wouldn't hear a tiger's padding approach, that's the whole point of an ambush predator - and relaxes when he sees its just Morse. He flicks his eyes over the other man; jacket back on now, hair a disaster but that doesn't mean anything, it's always like that. He looks uncomfortable, and rumpled, but that's par for the course much of the time too. God, does he not even know the other man? You don't come out of an afternoon like that unscathed.

"Fag?" He offers the packet, leaning on a nearby wall. "Day like today, no one'd blame ya." He takes a deep drag on his own, ember burning down almost to his fingers. He lights another from the end before dropping the first and stamping it out. Morse follows his movements, and he holds out the fresh cigarette.

"No, thanks."

Peter shrugs and raises it to his own lips. The adrenaline is starting to ease now; he no longer feels like he'll burst out of his skin. They watch in silence as Georgina is led out to the squad car and herded inside.

"Its a shame," Morse says, and Peter looks at him incredulously.

"That she let a man eating beast loose? Or that we arrested her?" He shakes his head. "Only you, Morse, always the pretty ones." He pushes off the wall with one foot and finds the car keys in his pocket. "Get in, you're not driving me in that state."

"I'm not in a state."

Peter hums. "It's because you think you're fine I know you're not. It's gonna hit you at some point. I'd rather you weren't behind the wheel."

\---

That evening, he's down the pub. Some of the other boys suggested it, and it didn't seem like a bad idea after the shift they'd just had. Drown the old sorrows in cheap alcohol and some company. But now the other lads are too noisy, and the pub is full of other people's smoke, and he can't stop replaying the gunshots, the dead tiger being carried out, the medics running in and not knowing. Not knowing who, if anyone, was hurt. Or worse.

He's halfway down his second pint but its not helping. He takes another mouthful and feels his stomach rise; its an effort to swallow rather than spit it out. "I'm heading off," he calls, abandoning the glass, but the other coppers barely notice. He throws a couple of shillings on the table to cover his part of the tab.

The outside air is a welcome hit of freshness, but the darkness could be hiding anything. God, is this what its gonna be like? Years of experience being a copper and now he's jumping at shadows, afraid of bloody _tigers_? He could get the bus but walks instead, refusing to give in to the fear. The smell of an open chippy draws him inside for a bag of chips and scratchings, which he eats with his fingers as he goes. For all their grease, they settle his stomach and distract him from imagined prowling predators.

Oh.

His feet have brought him to a door where just a couple of weeks ago he'd hauled in boxes and then waved off Morse's offer of drinks. There's a light on. He knocks.

"It's hit you then," is all he can think to say, when the door finally swings open. Morse looks a lot deeper down the bottle than he is, eyes glassy and wide.

"What're you doing here?"

He's not sure, really. Certainly hadn't planned a visit. He shrugs and shoulders his way in, leaving Morse to close the door behind him. The little living room is sparse, but there are hints of personality around; records, in a messy pile like he couldn't think what to listen to. A couple of photos on the mantelpiece that he wants desperately to peer at, but not when Morse is standing there about to fall over.

"Sit down," he says, guiding Morse back into his chair. He eyes the whiskey glass, full, and leaves it but moves the bottle out of reach. "Have you got any food?"

"You going to cook me dinner, Jakes?" Morse rests his head on one hand, looking up. He looks lost.

No, he looks drunk, Peter corrects himself. He ignores Morse and rifles through the kitchen cupboards instead. There's some bread that's seen better days but doesn't seem to be growing new life yet. He cuts off a couple of slices and sticks them under the grill, before filling the kettle.

Morse is almost asleep when Peter drops the plate of toast on his lap and places a mug of tea at his side. "'M not hungry," he mutters.

"This isn't for hunger, this is for soaking up the whiskey." He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, until Morse takes a bite. Then he relaxes, as much as possible, in one of Morse's hard-backed kitchen chairs. Morse eats automatically, no enjoyment despite the lashings of butter Peter used. He picks at his fingernails. He should probably say something, as he's here. "Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks, transferring his fiddling to the handle of his mug.

He doesn't expect Morse to start talking.

He doesn't expect the whole story to come spilling out, and from the detail and precision he would think it was a report - junior to senior officer - if it wasn't for the way Morse's voice shakes and he makes no effort to disguise it. Peter isn't good at comforting - at least not any kind that doesn't come from too many drinks and a nameless body in your bed - but he thinks most people like to be touched. He curses the lack of a sofa where he could just be near by, maybe nudge an arm, and instead pulls his chair close enough to be able to clap Morse on the shoulder.

The action seems too harsh, and at the last second he slows and lets his hand just rest there instead. Morse looks up at him.

"Thanks, Jakes."

He smiles awkwardly. "Don't mention it."

He leaves not long after, having half-pushed, half-cajoled Morse towards what he assumes is his bedroom. The next day, neither of them do mention it. Peter watches carefully instead, and lets a harsh comment fly in a tone of voice that doesn't quite match his words. Morse bristles, predictable, and he feels the tension slip from his shoulders.

**Coda**

The atmosphere is... uncomfortable. Thursday sits at his desk, but its obvious from the way he hasn't turned a page of that file in the last hour that his head isn't in the work. He hasn't given them assignments either, and Peter has instead scooped up a shop robbery that's been sat on the side while they dealt with all the more important cases. Not much chance of solving it now, but its something to read at least. Might give the shop owners a better view of the police if they think they're taking the investigation so seriously they're still pursuing leads two weeks later.

Morse is miserable, distracted, and infecting the whole room with it. His report on the events of the failed bank heist is more crossings out than actual words, and his rumpled shirt has ink splotched on one sleeve.

Can't blame him for being jumpy, really. Hostage, gunpoint, the boss' daughter mixed up in it all, and all this not three weeks after nearly getting maimed by a bloody zoo animal. Christ, but Morse can pick his cases.

He taps his pen against the page. There might be something with this witness... who gets their hair cut before eight in the morning?

He stares at the room full of people scribbling, the occasional apologetic ping of a typewriter starting a new line the only break in the hush. No one is even getting up for coffee. He scrubs a hand over his eyes. May as well check it out. Might be nothing, but if he has to sit here for another four hours he'll do something drastic. "Morse," he whisper shouts. The man in question looks up, cocking his head. "C'mon."

"I can't, I've got this report to finish."

He can't be bothered with this. He glances at Thursday's office, but the door is still closed. The man may as well be out, for all the notice he's taking of the room - and its got to be something big, something more than a daughter back home safe, for him to be ignoring Morse in this state. He hadn't even said anything about his shirt. "That's an order, Constable."

What's worrying is Morse doesn't argue back. Just grabs his jacket and follows him out.

\--

He thinks about taking the car, but Morse will want to drive and the way he's ghosting along at the moment, Peter doesn't trust him not to wrap them around a tree. Never mind that there aren't many trees in central Oxford. Morse would find one. He strides out on foot instead; its a nice enough day.

"What's this about?" asks Morse.

"Robbery over on Western Road."

Morse squints in the sunlight. "That the bakery from the other week? Got away with a load of bread rolls?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "And the previous day's takings."

"All right, just didn't think this was really-"

"Not glamorous enough for you Morse? You're not interested unless its big cats and gangsters these days?" Morse shutters, and Peter regrets the words. He thought making light of the last few weeks might help, but then he remembers Morse hunched in his chair, on that night they don't mention, and thinks maybe its not a time for levity. "Sorry," he mutters, digging in his pocket for his smokes. Morse rolls his eyes as he lights up, and the familiarity of the gesture settles him as they fall into step. "Must have been..." he trails off, not sure how to continue. "After, did you and Thursday...?"

Morse looks at him quizzically. He sighs.

"Talk, I suppose?"

"Why?"

Peter gestures nervously with his cigarette, and the action takes him back to standing outside the bank behind the barrier, feeling useless. "Dunno. He seems off."

"Well, his daughter-"

"Yeah, but you got her out. Home safe."

Morse laughs, cold. "Not exactly."

"She'll be all right. Joan's a tough one." He remembers dancing, the way she looked at him and didn't let him go too far, keeping his hands away from where she didn't want them. The way she stood, tall and unfazed despite the showdown. He remembers Morse taking the fall for him, and warning him to treat her right. He wonders whether there's more between Morse and Joan, that he doesn't know. "It's natural to be a bit shaken up, but she'll come round."

"She's gone."

"What?"

He's glad they're heading to a job, not talking in a pub, because it means Morse can't walk away. It also means he doesn't have to look him in the eye, which Morse no doubt appreciates as from his side glances they seem... shinier than usual. There is something more, then. He takes another drag on his cigarette.

"Took off. First light this morning. I saw her. Couldn't – couldn't stop her."

First light. That means Morse, battered and probably still bleeding from a bloody _bank heist_ was outside the Thursday residence as the sun came up, rather than sleeping in his own bed. He shakes his head; something to worry about later. "Just... gone?" The Thursdays are the perfect family. And Joan... left? That anyone would just leave that, like it meant nothing. “But Thursday... Mrs Thursday.”

“Said she had to.”

Peter knows it makes no sense to Morse either. For all that nothing's been explicitly said, there's a commonality between them. There was a shade too much empathy from Morse, rather than sympathy, back when Blenheim Vale exploded in his face. He's pretty sure if they have one thing in common, its shit childhoods.

Morse shrugs. “I couldn't tell her I-” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking to Peter and then down to his shoes. Combined with the sheen of unshed tears, and a new gruffness to his tone, the meaning hits him like a sock to the stomach. More than 'more'; something serious, to put that look there. He drops his cigarette, nearly gone anyway, and digs his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

“Sounds like – like it wouldn't have helped. If she had to do it. Like you said.”

“Yeah?”

He hunches, and lengthens his stride. There's a roughness in his own throat, probably from too many fags, not enough water. The sooner they get to this bakery the better. “Yeah.”

-

He turns up on Morse's doorstep late that night, bottle of whiskey in hand, because somehow its better, isn't it, if you don't drink alone? They can drown Morse's sorrows together, and that's healthier than each drowning them on their own.


	2. Series 4: Game, Canticle, Lazaretto, Harvest

**Game**

“C’mon pub.” He grabs his jacket, checking the pocket for his fags. Good, they’re there. He's gonna need them.

“What now? I’ve got-“

“Yes now.”

There must be something in his face, because for once, Morse lets himself be told what to do, shrugging into his coat and following Peter down to the Lamb and Flag. “So?” he asks, when they’re seated.

Peter pulls a fag from the packet with his teeth and lights it. “Heard about your results.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not right,” he adds, tucking the lighter away in his inside pocket.

“No.” Morse looks down at his drink.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Morse darkens, turning his pint glass in rhythmic, quarter circle increments. Peter watches his fingers, lightly circling, and taps away ash. “Not much I can do. I already went to Bright. Just have to sit it again next round and-“

“And watch the paper go walkies again?” Peter scoffs, taking a long pull of his pint. Morse shrugs.

“It'd have meant moving to nights anyway. Hadn’t thought about that when I sat it.”

“So, you’re happy being a constable for the rest of your life?”

“’Course not.”

Peter drags a finger through a pool of condensation formed on the table, beer settling heavy in his stomach. “So, what? You gonna leave, try again in a new county?”

“Probably should,” mutters Morse. “I don’t know.”

“Oxford’s crime rate would soar.”

Morse laughs, scraping a hand through his hair.

“No, I mean it.”

“Right, thanks Jakes.”

He leans forward and shoves a finger in Morse’s face, rather more adamant than the half pint he’s sunk already allows for, but he'll use the excuse. “I’m serious. You’ve got the best solve rate in the department-“

“We all work tog-“

“Don’t be modest Morse, it don’t suit you.”

They sit in silent agreement. “What about that time it really was a tipsy figure of eight?” Morse asks finally, and Peter huffs a laugh.

“All right, just once I get the crown. Give your big ears a rest from holding it up.”

Morse smirks, and finishes his pint. “Another?” he asks, tilting the empty glass.

“Better not.”

They go their separate ways outside the pub, but later that night his footsteps carry him from the chippy - where he somehow bought two lots of fish - to a familiar door. They end up having that second drink after all. And a third.

Somewhere into the fourth Morse stands up. The booze has turned his frustration increasingly dark, helplessness edging into anger, and it hardens his face. He looks like some kind of avenging angel, hair lit from behind by the bare bulb, looming over where he sits on one of the kitchen chairs. His eyes are desperate.

“Morse?” he asks, but the only answer is a shocking press of infuriating lips against his, softer now than when they're spitting out jibes. Just as quick though, just as clever. It's a surprise that blooms quickly into a kind of realisation, one that leads him to grip Morse's shoulders and kiss back, mouth opening, hurried, unsure, but not wanting to stop, not wanting to give him a chance to pull away. He thinks Morse needs someone to rail at, by the way he takes this as permission to hold him by the hips just a shade too hard, and push him backwards, off the chair and onto the hard floor. He just catches him as they land in a tangle of teeth and tongues. 

They're not drunk enough for this, he thinks frantically, but they must be, because its happening, isn't it? And he can't think how this would occur sober, brain skittering away from times he's watched – hands, hair, the artful quirk of Morse's lips as he takes a suspect to task – its out of nowhere, he's sure. Even as Morse presses his body weight into him and he groans at the feeling.

He wonders if Morse is thinking of Joan. He runs his fingers through that hair and closes his grip in a yank; something she'd never do. He tries to think of Hope, like it's all okay if he pictures a girl, but Morse gasps, swallowed up by the kiss, and he scowls because he wanted to hear it more than feel it, and he doesn't want Hope's breathy sighs, he wants whatever this is. He moves his mouth to his neck, and something clicks when Morse sighs his name; Peter. He wants to watch Morse's eyes flutter shut, he realises, and his hands grasp. He wants to make Morse say his name again, in that tone and every other, and in return he wants Morse to tease out noises he didn't know he could make.

It's quick, and its messy, and it lights something unknown inside, that scares him and pins him to the floor in the aftermath. Awkwardness hovers, both of them staring at the ceiling.

He should leave. Get up, fasten his trousers, smooth his hair back into place and just go, out into the night. But Morse turns his head until he's looking at him like a challenge, and Peter drags him from the floor and shoves him into the bed instead. He steals half his pillow in retribution.

–

Morse shakes during the night, and Peter pretends to be asleep when he cries out; he'd want the same courtesy. He's had the odd girl who stayed the night try and soothe it out of him, and can never say how their touch then makes his skin crawl, how their pitying looks turn his fear to anger, because they don't _know_, they don't _understand_. Morse clambers over him, and from the faint clink and glug he's pouring a drink.

He must settle elsewhere, because the bed grows cold.

-

“Sir.” Peter stands to attention in Thursday’s office.

“Sergeant,” Thursday replies warily. “Wasn’t aware I’d called for you.”

“There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

“I hope it’s something related to that spate of robberies you’re meant to be solving?”

“No.”

Thursday sighs. “Close the door.” He gestures to the chair opposite his desk, but Peter feels antsy, wired; sitting in a chair would only make him bounce a knee or spring up again. He paces instead, long steps that eat up the office floor too quickly.

“Well?” asks Thursday.

Now that he’s here, he’s not sure where to start. “It’s about Morse, sir,” he hedges.

“Oh?”

“His results.”

“Told you about that did he." Thursday packs and lights his pipe.

“The whole station knows sir.” Thursday placidly puffs away. It makes his fingers itch for a cigarette as well, just something to hold, but he balls his fists instead until his nails dig into his palms. “It’s not right.”

“Way it goes sometimes.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“Not a time for belief. Facts are as they are, nothing we can do about it now. Morse’ll pass next time.”

Peter darkens. “He passed this time.” Thursday inclines his head in agreement. “It won’t matter if he passes next time either, will it?”

Thursday indicates the chair again, and this time Peter lets himself slump into it, a posture more suited for lounging at home or down the pub than a sergeant in the office of his superior. “Like as not, no. He's made himself enemies. But there's no room for another sergeant here anyways, and I’d be sad to see him go.”

“So what, he stays our constable forever?”

Thursday levels a look at his borderline insolence, and Peter grudgingly accepts Thursday probably isn’t too happy about events either. He has taken Morse under his wing after all, practically a pseudo son at times, the way they clash and come back together. “I’m not saying it’s perfect, but it is what it is for now. We can’t do anything 'til the next round of exams anyway.”

“An’ in the meantime, he gets me and Strange lording it over him.”

“Thought you enjoyed that,” Thursday says with a sly smile. "You know, its not a _requirement_ for a senior officer to rise to the bait every time."

Peter looks at his hands. At the long fingers and stubby fingernails that last night swept underneath Morse's shirt, stroking down his side, marvelling in the touch. He could practically count ribs, but his skin was soft, and Peter's head had been spinning, panic and booze and an odd, new kind of lust that pulled them both forward-

He cuts that thought off right there. Morse had nodded at him this morning in the office like nothing happened, like he hadn't skipped out of the basement at five AM to get home for a wash and a change of clothes.

“He’s a better detective than Strange.”

It's safer it goes unmentioned. If they don't talk about it, they can pretend it didn't happen, just a weird dream he had one night.

“Strange is a good cop.”

“But Morse is better.”

They both know its the truth, no point beating around the bush. As long as you ignore the disregard for authority (and recent... proclivities, a small, internal voice adds), although no one would usually put it so boldly. Strange can play the game, and follow the rules, but its Morse who catches more criminals. Morse who has made their little team something of a shining star of the Oxford City Police.

“Better than me too,” he admits, feeling a strange need to be honest.

Thursday sighs. “Why do you care, sergeant? Time was you and Morse were at each other’s throats, and I’m not saying I’m not glad you’re past that, but he’s also well capable of fighting his own battles. So, what’s brought this on?”

Peter thinks back. To nights and days of Morse on the edge, Morse giving everything – literally everything – to the job, and weighs it up against the defeated set to his shoulders in the pub the day before. The way he'd looked at Peter last night; like he was asking for something, anything to block out the present, but could never put it into words. “He does what’s right, sir.”

“Yes.”

“He did what I couldn’t.” He means that night he'd drunk alone in the pub, let Morse and Thursday fight his battles while he threw up in the gutter staggering home. That night he'd broken, and woken up to a morning that sent shards of sunlight into his brain; a realisation that while he'd been passed out, everyone else broke too. He means then, but really, so many times since as well. Could he have faced down a tiger? He doesn't think so.

Thursday carefully doesn’t react; a study in serenity. They all take care not to mention that night around Peter, and he wonders sometimes whether they talk about it at all, or if the whole mess is just cordoned off in everyone’s minds. “He ended up in prison for it.”

“Seem to remember we got him out of that," Thursday says softly, matching his own tone. "And when I say we, I mean mostly you, given my position in a hospital bed. Think you’ve probably made up for it a long time since. Not that there was anything to make up for. Morse never thought there was.”

“You know he doesn’t sleep right?” he asks, picking at his nails.

“I’m not sure he's ever had an easy relationship with the Sandman.”

“He has nightmares. Wakes up at one or two in the morning, sits up and drinks the night away instead. You didn’t know? Then comes in here and still runs circles around the rest of us.”

When he looks up, Thursday is grave. “I didn’t know that, sergeant. And I don’t want to know why you do.”

He doesn’t have an explanation, not really. He could say a few drinks that went on late, kipping on the chair when bad weather made the walk back an unpleasant prospect. But Thursday’s a copper, and not a dim one. He's said too much, risked what's brand new (what didn't happen) but is coated already in alcohol and confusion.

“Take Trewlove with you to the swimming baths.”

He's not sure if it’s a rebuke, this separation, or if Thursday wants Morse for something else. It could be nothing at all, him reading too much into a simple request. He leaves the door open on his way out.

–

He can't believe how this case has worked out; computers and the like, its practically Star Trek. But then Miss Frazil goes missing and the wonder disappears in a frantic back and forth that ends with a car on fire and a bedraggled Morse dragging a half-drowned murderer back towards where Peter is lighting a cigarette for Miss Frazil.

“What happened to you?” he asks incredulously.

“Quick dip, what do you think,” Morse replies shortly, and Thursday takes the boffin off his hands to fix him in handcuffs. Peter eyes the Jag; as the only car still functional it'd be a squash to get them all in, and he's not exactly keen to be all pressed up against two men who have recently taken a fully clothed swim in the Cherwell. Although body heat wouldn't be a bad idea for Morse; he's almost turning blue. And a small part of Peter would rather it came from him than either Thursday or Frazil.

The other option is hang around for a squad car to turn up. But they don't all need to be here, and a sideways glance at Frazil shows her shaking is increasing.

“Why don't you run Miss Frazil back to town,” he offers. “I'll stay here with him. Wait for the PCs.”

Its unorthodox to leave him alone and without a radio, but Thursday takes a long look at Morse, soaked to the skin, and nods. “Good idea sergeant. Get them to call through when they turn up.”

They clear out quickly after that. Miss Frazil obviously needs medical attention, both for the shock and the cut on her head. He only hopes Morse has the sense to drop her off at the Radcliffe and head straight home for a warm bath. Or Thursday has the sense to force him into it.

**Canticle**

Of course Morse got sent on a minor drug incident at a college and it ended being a television shoot. Of _course_ it would be the one man in the nick with absolutely zero interest in popular culture. Okay, a sergeant on the case would have been overkill. But still. If any of them are due a bit of glamour, its him. He's got the face for it, not to mention the rank. But it seems Thursday is keen to keep any possible starstruck glint from the case, because he's running around asking questions with just Morse in tow.

"They're honestly not that interesting." Peter raises an eyebrow at Morse; finally, he's landed a good assignment, and they've ended up together at the TV studios in Birmingham because 'outside their jurisdiction' seems to translate into 'send with back-up'. Morse is attached to that awful god-botherer (and he allows himself a laugh at that, both because Morse hates it and because he wants to be there when he inevitably flips and lets her have what for) and he's on crowd watch given the visibility of a live broadcast. "They're not!" he insists. "Bunch of drug-addled layabouts."

Peter looks at Morse, head to feet and back again, and wonders if he's ever partaken of any mood alterers. Probably not; the way he took to alcohol, they'd have a bigger issues if he had. It's not the place to ask.

"Good music though."

Morse snorts. "If you like that sort of thing." The lights go down and cameras start rolling. He scans the crowd and sees Morse doing the same, but most people are just sitting, killing time until the band come on. He can't help rolling his eyes at Mrs Pettybon; the world's got bigger issues love, than a bit of bad language and what goes on behind closed doors. He side eyes Morse. Wonders how he stands it, protecting her, knowing she'd rip him to shreds if she knew where he'd put his hands and trailed his lips, just a few weeks ago.

–

He sees Morse slip out of the studio after the heckler, and wonders whether he should go too. Technically its him on crowds after all, Morse should be back here with two eyes on Pettybon. But she's got cameras and an entire audience watching her, so he follows, rounding the corner just in time to glare at the departing rough guys and see Morse help the heckler up. He looks worse for wear. Peter hangs back.

Morse is turned away, but the heckler looks up at Morse and there might be desperation there, but Peter can't believe there's true malice despite the shouting. He stays on the balls of his feet anyway, ready to intervene, but he's proved right when their conversation turns softer.

“It was about love. She said it was dirty. How can love be dirty?”

“Well if it isn't, I expect you're not doing it right.” His voice is matter of fact, just a hint of humour, but it sends Peter spinning back around the corner until he's out of sight. He leans against the wall; sense-memory of his shoulder blades digging into the hard floor, of hands everywhere, of a slick tongue fighting with his -

Blood rises so quickly to his face he's probably heating the air around him. He pulls at his tie a little, hoping he can pass it off as a summer flush, too long in the sun (this shaded alleyway) with his jacket on. Yes, there's something to be said for dirty. Morse and Dudley might still be talking, but its muffled by the thump of blood in his ears and Morse's words, round and round in his head, alternately warming and skittering away from how Morse links sex and love so easily. There was no love between them. It was just a one-off. Hot, yes. But just – just a time that didn't even happen, a dream to blow off steam.

He stalks back inside.

Later, he musters up an unconcerned smirk at Morse weighed down with bouquets, off to deliver the witch and her entourage to the hotel. As soon as he's out of sight he groans though, pressing a hand to his forehead to dislodge the sight. There was something pleasing about Morse with flowers. Combined with that phrase still ringing in his ears, he's all over the place as he starts the car to drive back to Oxford.

Deserves a bloody Oscar, he does.

-

Peter grumbles as his eyes open and just about focus on the clock. Who the hell is knocking on his door? It's gone bloody midnight; he's fallen asleep in the armchair, radio still on.

Oh that's right, he thinks, remembering the ten o'clock news he'd caught. The bill had gone through. July 27th, 1967. A bill he'd been vaguely aware of, the way any copper keeps half an eye on changes to crime and the law.

More than vaguely aware, of course he's been more than vaguely aware, especially with this case. But he's also carefully cultivated his impartial veneer, so carefully that for a moment he forgot. Almost convinced himself.

He should probably have been celebrating, or at least happy. Not a time for down the pub, no; that would be too public, too much like an admission. But here, a few records, perhaps a better than usual whiskey. Instead, his eyes catch on the half drunk beer on the side table, the condensation run down the glass and still formed in wet pools even now. Morse would tell him off for keeping it in the fridge.

Another loud banging, and he staggers through the hall in bare feet, shivering.

"What?" he growls, throwing open the front door. Morse, halfway through another volley of thumps, crashes through unbalanced, landing with his hands against Peter's chest. His hands come up automatically to steady Morse, gripping him by the elbows, and the feel of his muscles shifting under his shirt sparks just a flicker of interest, pushing its way through the sleep haze.

"Hello Peter," he says simply.

"Morse, it's nearly one in the morning."

“Did you hear?”

He could mean anything, but somehow he knows what Morse is on about. He thinks back on his career, and how he'd managed to avoid ever bringing someone in on those charges; gross indecency, like it wasn't just a different way of doing the same thing all those uptight stiffs did to their wives twice a week. He'd processed a few as a constable – unavoidable, that – but that was it. And now he wouldn't have to.

Arrests had been dropping off anyway, apart from the odd posse of coppers who liked to stake out the known haunts and feel like they were balancing the tides. Like rounding up the young and the still mostly innocent (because the experienced ones could read a cop a mile off) was something to be proud of. Cowley had picked a few people up in recent weeks – for protests on both sides, that had got out of hand – but no one for the act itself.

He wonders what will happen to those already inside, if they'll be released. Returned their freedom. It doesn't feel like quite enough.

Morse had been outspoken about it, of course. Peter had watched from the sidelines, head down and willing him to shut up for once and leave it be. There are rumours, but luckily Morse is enough of a hothead that no one's quite sure if he's personally invested or just picking a fight, like his Rhodesia embargo and his donations to AmnOx. And his arrest record – if not his personality – buys him a certain amount of slack. He'd said too loud though, too often, how it was a imbecilic law, high time it got written out of the books – until Thursday pulled him aside and said that until the gavel comes down its still their job to uphold it.

But Jakes knows Thursday, and knows he's one of the good ones. One who'll develop a case of selective blindness when needed, one who can do the right thing but stay free of suspicion thanks to his rank, his wife, and his two children. Peter doesn’t have that luxury. He'd steered clear of it altogether, careful not to offer an opinion either way. Because there was a safe way and a risky way to answer that question, and the safe way stuck in his throat like stale bread.

“I just thought – I should be here. Tonight. Of all nights.”

He shakes his head to clear it, and lets Morse in off the doorstep. He can't help the way he scans the street, even at this late hour. Somehow, today, this visit seems... suggestive.

Morse wanders through to the lounge and strips off his coat. He points at the beer. “You got another one of those?”

“No.”

“Whiskey then?”

He does have whiskey. Almost half a bottle full, and he'd almost started in on it earlier but its cheap stuff and he'd worried he'd end up pissed and alone, passed out in his chair. Look how well that turned out. He doesn't want Morse dulled though. “No.”

Morse grabs the beer glass instead and takes a swig. He winces at the water running down his wrist. “This is ale, you're not supposed to chill it.”

He can't help but laugh; loud and too much for the situation, powered by an edge of hysteria. Morse waits until he calms, then cups his face in one hand, smoothing his right thumb under Peter's eye.

“Okay?”

He nods. And surges forward, tugging Morse in by the nape of his neck, what is he doing? This – this can't happen again. But Morse's mouth opens so easily, and he tastes like old beer – Peter must as well – and an unfamiliar spirit underneath. It doesn't matter, he thinks. Not when his mouth is this hot, and wet, and against Peter's own again. When his fingers are sneaking up underneath Peter's shirt.

He remembers last time, and tugs lightly at Morse's hair drawing out a ragged gasp. He pulls him back to look; lips shiny and cheeks flushed. His pupils are huge, Peter realises. Blue disappearing to black, it makes Morse look... dangerous. What he might do. Morse reclaims his hands and goes for Peter's buttons, stripping his shirt apart and shoving it back, over shoulders until he can rip it from his wrists. He realises they're on the same page, that hanging around that witch these past two days hasn't dulled Morse.

Now he's in, there's no uncertainty from Morse, and Peter let's his hands fly back into his hair for something to hold on to. There's strong sweeps of Morse's palms over his arms and chest, Peter gasping as they hit the ticklish skin of his belly, and he's feeling wrong-footed, because somehow he's half naked and Morse is – well, as its Morse he could probably show up to the office like that and no one would bat an eye.

“If you don't start taking off my clothes...” Morse grumbles, but his voice is insistent and breathy, and it makes Peter smirk. He doesn't want to let go of soft hair, so he works shirt buttons one-handed, clumsily, while Morse efficiently undoes his belt.

The clunk of the buckle as it hits the floor stops them both.

“We doing this then?” asks Peter, voice gravelly. He hopes they are, but equally, this is the point of no return. Before was a one-off, a mostly-clothed scramble, nothing really. If it happens again now its a pattern. If they stop he'll spend days, weeks, thinking about the slide of his hand on smooth skin but then he'll go out, find a girl, replace pointy hips and sharp words with soft curves – and perhaps this will be just a weird interlude in his life, nothing more than a sidestep soon forgotten. If they keep going... Morse already fills up his days with annoyance and one-upmanship, if he's here, too, in his nights – he thinks he might be lost.

“Yeah,” gasps Morse, bucking his hips into Peter. His breath catches at the feel of him, hard, such an obvious sign of interest that he can't help letting the air out as a groan. You never can tell with girls. But _God,_ he can tell with Morse, and Morse doesn't hesitate to direct him – exactly what he wants, where he wants it. Morse catches his free hand, flailing now its worked out the buttons, unsure where to land, wanting everything, everywhere, _now. _Morse catches it, and clutches it, and places it firmly on his arse, pressing down and shifting their hips into each other.

“Yeah,” Peter answers, pulling Morse close before walking him backwards, through the darkened hall, to the bedroom.

–

Afterwards, Peter is too wired to sleep – despite the hour and the orgasm. He lies with the sheets thrown back, sweat cooling and Morse a long line of heat next to him. He wrestles the window open for a breath of night air, but it can only be a degree or two cooler out there than in here. He flops back, twitching the curtain as best he can to block out the street light that shines all night. He tries turning on his side, and closing his eyes.

“Should I go?”

His eyes spring open again, and meet blue in the semi-darkness. “Go?”

Morse smiles an empty sort of smile, and waves one hand up and down. “Two bodies, two heat sources.”

It's an easy out. He could say yes, and he knows Morse would leave, and they could pretend the heat was the reason why. But really it's wham bam thank you mam, now quick, over the back fence before anybody sees. Its tempting.

“Too late for the bus now.”

Never mind it was too late when Morse turned up, which means he'd probably walked, or there's a conspicuous Jaguar parked outside, not yet dropped off, straight down from Birmingham to hotel to Peter's door. It's a nice thought, but all the same he hopes Morse walked. It's safer. Besides, walking all the way across town for... his mind veers away from the naming of the thing even now. That's a nice thought too.

“Bright new era,” Morse mutters lowly, as if their living room conversation had never been interrupted.

“There'll still be beatings. Kids thrown out of homes. Hate.” He hates to bring it up now. “Could still lose our jobs.” Hates to bring it into this single bed where they lie together. It scrubs away the last of the endorphins he has singing through his veins, but he can't help it. Morse is an idealist. One of them has to be practical.

“It's a start. A hope.”

Peter hums. Despite the topic, he can feel sleep starting to steal its way over him, and he rearranges the pillow to his liking. It brings his face within centimetres of Morse's, but the other man stays looking at the ceiling. He's too tired to care if this is too close.

"Peter – I've been... indelicate."

He lets out his breath in a puff. "Mmm?"

"Bettina. I had a drink with her, in her room."

That would have been the unfamiliar spirit he could taste, then. He casts around and summons up a vague memory of dark hair, pretty eyes, from outside the studios. Daughter of the witch.

"Mmm."

"It was just a drink."

"But knowing Mrs Pettybon it'll be the scandal of the century," he mumbles.

"Yes." His breath hitches and Peter realises there's more. "I think she... wanted me."

"Oh?"

"I set her straight. But..."

"Possible trouble," Peter fills in.

"Yes."

"You and pretty girls, Morse. Especially those holding alcohol."

"She was scared. And lonely."

"Mmm, bet she was." He makes his voice high and breathy. "Save me Mr Morse!" He snickers into Morse's neck and feels it tauten as Morse turns his head. "Thursday'll see sense if it gets that far."

"Yeah?"

Peter digs his fingers into Morse's ribs in rebuke. "Yeah. An' in future, don't be alone with the young girls who fancy you. Idiot."

Morse quietens after that, and Peter slips into sleep. When his eyes open next, the sun is already streaming through the curtain and the bed is his own. And then the phone rings, calling him back to bloody Mrs Pettybon.

-

If there's a time and place for a morning after, over a dead body can't be a bad one. Maybe that says something about him, but its easier to concentrate, and push back flashes of last night, when there's a corpse on the floor demanding attention. It also turns Morse pale, which helps to displace the picture of him flushed and smiling, clutching at Peter's – back to the corpse. DeBryn tilts its head to the side, and Morse removes his gaze, staring at the ceiling instead.

Morse has a bite mark, he knows, just under that collar. He'd worried it into his skin last night, and as Thursday looks at where Morse is staring and suggests they go interview the Pettybon's, Morse's fingertips unconsciously brush over it. He seems to realise what he's doing, and turns it into a tug at his tie, but the movement displays a glimpse of dark bruised skin and Peter coughs, shaking his head. Morse's wild eyes make him grin, glad he gets to stay with DeBryn as they leave the room.

He's less glad later, hearing from Strange that the hammer has fallen on Morse for that damn drink, and from a lot further up than Thursday. At least the governor's only shifted him sideways, still with a murder to get his teeth into, probably knowing how well Morse would take being put onto grunt work. He'd do something stupid solving the case anyway, on his own, and get himself torn up in the process.

But with Morse out the way, they're a man down on the Reverend Golightly's case, and worse – a constable down, which means legwork. Peter sighs, and gathers up his keys.

–

Its okay that he's here, he tells himself, over and over as he gets lost in the halls of the hospital, asks for directions, and doubles back. One colleague visiting another. Nothing wrong with that. Its not like he's bringing flowers.

God, only Morse could face down a tiger without a scratch and then get himself hospitalised by a hippie. All while Peter's on the other side of town taking statements. Thursday had picked Strange to go with him to that house... but he heard what Strange said when he brought the girl back to the station. He'd kept his voice low, his recounting short for Morse's privacy, but it was enough. Too much.

He finally finds the room, and – oh.

Morse looks... small, in a way he never normally does. Peter had seen him shake out of a nightmare, that first night, when the time to leave had come and he'd stared Peter into his bed instead. He's seen him go white at grisly crime scenes, and bleed through shirts. But nothing quite like this face down sprawl, like his strings have been cut. He wants to touch, and check that Morse is still warm, because he seems so...

“Be glad you didn't see him in the grip of it.”

He jumps a mile, yanking back his outstretched hand, but Thursday's patting his pockets down and not looking at him. He rearranges his face into something suitable, and coughs. He pulls a stack of paper from his pocket. “Brought him some crosswords. Figured he'd want them.”

“I'm sure he will, once he wakes up.”

Thursday takes the chair at the bedside, and Peter hovers awkwardly. He shifts his feet and winces when his soles squeak on the linoleum. “He's not woken up?”

“Not yet. Just a matter of time, the nurses say.” Thursday peers at Peter, and if anyone's figured them out it's him, but he doesn't say anything. Just shifts his weight like he's settling in for the long haul. Peter reaches across and dumps the stack of clipped puzzles on the table, then roots in his jacket for a pen in case Morse didn't have one with him. He should have thought to bring some books. But then, he owns nothing Morse would want to read.

“I'd better go.”

“So soon? Borrow a chair, Jakes, no one's in the next bed, it won't be missed. Take the weight off.”

He glances from Morse to Thursday and back again. Thinks about sitting there, under the watchful eye of an inspector, Morse still and silent between them. Thinks about what Morse might say or do as he wakes, confused and disorientated, if he sees Peter next to him – a half familiar sight.

The smell of the hospital is getting to him, and he blinks hard; he's never liked these places, and Morse is _so_ still. “No, I've got a date.” It slips out like butter from a hot pan, a lie he hadn't planned to tell but its out there now.

Thursday's eyebrows shoot up. “Right,” he says mildly, as Peter spins on his heel and leaves.

**Lazaretto**

“All right?”

Morse sits up, running his hands through his hair, and Peter hands him a cup of terrible hospital coffee. The tea had looked even worse.

“No news yet,” he replies, taking a swig and wincing. “They took him in, but...” he shrugs. Peter just nods, staring down into his own cup. He might not be Bright's biggest fan, but he's stood by them more than once. He'd rather not start from scratch with a new boss.

“I heard.” DeBryn walks down the corridor, suit neatly pressed, bow-tie and briefcase. Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes. The old man's not dead yet, what's the pathologist doing here? “Well, he's in good hands. The cutter's Sir Merlyn Chubb. Chief surgeon.”

Peter tunes out, no patience for medical stories when there's no crime. He leans back instead, letting Morse take this one, and keeps one eye on him in case he keels over from the mere description of blood. There's been something not been quite right with him since the morning the old reverend's body was found. Strangely withdrawn, like he's hiding something. Maybe he's regretting the night before, too much of a promise turning up unannounced and turning a drunken one off into pattern. Or perhaps it's just the after effects of the drugs. Morse, after all, has a lot of demons they could have woken. 

'Old fellow' makes it through his block, and he stifles a snort in another swig of coffee. God knows how Morse, of all people, has managed to wrap the good doctor round his finger. Must be all the bloody poetry they spout at each other. He tracks his eyes over the way Morse leans forward, his trousers riding up to show his socks. The way DeBryn seeks to reassure him, the way they come together. 

An unwanted flicker of something. He reminds himself that he knows what those ankles are like de-socked; vulnerable, ticklish. What that back looks like bare. He's pretty sure DeBryn could only imagine.

He hopes he doesn’t imagine.

He could be the type though. More what you think of, stereotypically, although that's no guarantee. Hell, for all he knows the doctor could have a wife and three kids tucked away somewhere. Or he could be the thing Morse is hiding...

A tap on his arm drags him out of it. “Strange is coming.”

“Right.” He shakes his head, catching sight of him at the end of the corridor. “I should get back to the station. With Bright here Thursday's taking the helm.”

“Are you playing the part of Thursday?” Morse screws his face up, and Peter chooses to believe its the idea of his... whatever they are, taking the place of someone he views in more of a... parental role. Or perhaps some throwback resentment to when he was just Jakes, never Peter, and played up his seniority. Rather than any comment on his ability to do the job.

“Someone's got to.” He nods to Strange as he passes.

He's glad to get out of the hospital, with its antiseptic tang and squeaky floors, and once outside stops for a fortifying cigarette before he starts the drive back. He's surprised to hear Morse round the corner as its burning down, deep in conversation with a woman. He only catches snatches on the breeze; enough to puzzle out a history that Morse has never mentioned, someone called Henry that darkens his voice. He crushes the butt under his toe as Morse stubbornly keeps his temper, putting more force into it than necessary as gravel shreds the paper. He grinds his teeth at the woman's condescending tone.

Morse sees him as he walks past, and he realises too late he's just standing here now, not even the excuse of a smoke dangling between his fingers. Morse nods sharply and walks away.

-

It's not fun playing at being Thursday, he thinks later that evening. It's not all authority and gravitas; it's dark out, he's been at it for hours and the paperwork is still piled up. He's just about cracked next week's rotas, though, and if any of this drags on another week he'll just submit the same damn list again. He signs the paper, and stands up to drop it on Bright's desk. Thursday will presumably see it in the morning.

“Sergeant?” A young constable he's embarrassed to say he can't recall the name of shifts anxiously from foot to foot.

“Yes?”

“My report on the shooting, sir.”

“Shooting?”

“Over at the hospital.”

His stomach sinks like a physical thing, and for a second a wave of nausea sweeps over him. He pushes it back. It could be anything. But let's face it, it's almost certainly Morse.

“Thank you.” He grabs the report and tears back the first page, not even noticing when the constable leaves. He's speed reading – enough to get the gist. No casualties. Thank god. It is Morse though, and the constable has a certain way of painting pictures with words – he can see the moonlit chase, and his imagination has no trouble filling in alternate endings. A shot aimed true, the way Morse writhed last time he had lead buried in him. A clumsy footstep, that leads to scrabbling fingers and a long drop. The door bangs open and he jumps.

“Jakes?”

It's just the night shift filtering in, and he relaxes, looking up at Inspector Goggins. Nights are always a skeleton crew, and they have their own set of desks on the far side of the office; they pay him no attention, and he's thankful given the way his hands shake. “Sir.”

“Get out of here, you know there's no overtime.”

“I was just-”

“You've had one too many coffees already, I'd wager,” he says, nodding at Peter's hands. He resists the urge to hide them, knowing it would only make more of it. He shrugs instead. “Go, Jakes.”

He nods, dropping the report and rotas on Bright's desk before heading out.

On the steps he stops to light a cigarette, letting the nicotine soothe away the worst of his jitters. Morse is fine, he tells himself. He's not cut down, sprawled out in blue hospital sheets, not today. He could go over there and see for himself, but honestly he's exhausted, and there's likely nothing much he can do now, not if the reports have already been typed. Morse will have been relieved from his shift. So he starts walking without purpose, hoping the exercise will calm his mind further, and is unsurprised when his feet bring him to Morse's flat. It's dark and empty though, so after a minute he turns for home. Perhaps Morse thought he'd find Peter there.

-

By three in the morning, Morse still hasn't shown up and the jitters have ramped up again, to the point where he can't wait any longer. The fear and jumpiness are solidifying with a thorough coat of irritation, and he pulls on trousers, shirt and shoes and heads out, just barely avoiding slamming the door behind him.

The streets are deserted, and he's glad of it as he walks like a man on a mission, long strides eating up the pavement. Despite the darkness, he's worked up a sweat by the time he bangs on Morse's door. He pushes through it as opens, closing it firmly behind him and shoving Morse in the direction of the living room.

“You're alive then. Bloody shot at Morse? And I hear from uniform, riding a desk filling in for Thursday!”

“He got away.”

“I don't care what happened to _him_, Morse!” It's a bit too blatant, a bit too much, and he scrubs at his hair, no doubt leaving it sticking every which way. “Late night hospital roof gun chases...” he shakes his head as Morse just stands there, and some of the fight drains out of him. He's okay. No blood. No bruises. “Is it 'cause of...” He doesn't know quite how to broach his eavesdropping earlier.

“Thursday took me back to his. For a drink. When I went to do the identikit you'd gone.”

“I'd been on for fourteen hours. Night shift kicked me out.”

Neither of them will apologise. It's not how they do things, and at least in this instance it doesn't sound like Morse went looking for trouble. Just draws it to him like a bloody magnet. He sucks in a deep breath. He's here. He's fine.

“Right. Bright and early tomorrow, Morse.”

The walk home again seems twice as long, legs aching with all the exertion now the anxiety has drained away, and by the time he shoulders his own door open he's thinking wistfully of the fact that he could have been asleep now if he'd stayed. But they don't do that, just stay over, and he couldn't have tipped Morse into bed for a romp, not sober, not with tendrils of fear still thrumming in his veins. As much as a small, very small, part of him wanted to steer him through the flat, and under sheets. Just to hold him close, and litter soft, going-nowhere kisses across his nape.

No. He strips down to his pants and rips back his cold sheets. That's not what this is.

-

The next day he sees Morse and Nurse Hicks from the window of the room where he's taking a shift watching over Bakewell. Its boring work, made worse by his lack of sleep last night. It also grates, keeping scum like him safe, but he just keeps telling himself it'll be worth it if it gets the rest of the Matthews gang off the streets.

Hicks has her arms crossed, leaning on the wall. He's not really sure what happened there; just knows that she was a thing before prison, not that Morse ever told anyone, and not a thing after. Morse had cared enough to tell her where he was going, after his release. Cared more than he had for Peter, or even Thursday, and that had stung both of them. They hadn't dug too deep at the time though. It had seemed peripheral to the risk of making sure Morse didn't go off permanently into his posh git set, or leave to become some kind of woodsman. Then, as Morse settled back in to work, there were poisoners and tigers and gangsters and he hadn't really wanted to know anyway.

But she's still here, and Oxford is a small town. She must have checked in on Morse the other week, when Peter was too chicken to come back to the hospital. And now... they look kind of comfortable together. Just chatting, at the corner of the car park. She could be on her lunch break, asking what time Morse will be off shift and should she do him a plate for dinner. He gets the closed off posture. Could be distance, could be something else entirely. Anchoring arms down so they don't reach out when they shouldn't.

His hand clenches in the fabric of the curtain, and he releases it deliberately. Monica walks off, and Morse glances up – catches him; an impossibility, surely, those eyes drawn directly to his out of all the windows on a building this size. But he just smiles; a small twitch no doubt indiscernible at this distance to anyone who doesn't know that face. Peter half raises a hand in greeting, and the smile grows, before Morse shakes his head and heads to the door.

–

They're run ragged with Bright out of commission, everyone shifted one up the hierarchy in his absence, and Morse chooses today of all days to go MIA? A day's leave, no explanation, and Strange not switched on enough to even ask why. Its making him shifty, and not just because they keep missing each other on this bloody case and he hasn't had a chance to corner Morse about Nurse Hicks. Not to mention he forgot all about that other woman, the one with the attitude that Morse hadn't risen up against, when he'd heard about the shooting. Or whatever he's been hiding for even longer than that. No, its because Morse could rub a statue up the wrong way, and if he's gone off on one of his wild leads he's got no back-up and no one even knowing where to start coming after him. With bad guys who have already opened fire once. He jumps as the phone rings, spilling his tea in the saucer and cursing as it splashes on his tie. He grabs the receiver.

"Jakes."

"Hello."

It's Morse's voice, but either its a bad connection or he's practically whispering. He feels a bit of his tension ease, and groans inwardly. He's acting like a girl with a damn crush. He glances up, but Strange is back at the hospital, Thursday off out somewhere and all the other coppers are rooting through evidence at the other end of the room.

"Where'd you disappear to?"

There's a moment of silence. "Leamington Spa."

Peter pulls the phone from his ear and stares at it for a second, running through a mental tally of everything he knows about Morse, his family, the case. None of it tallies. "Why on earth are you in Leamington Spa?"

More silence. Peter hides his sigh by tilting the receiver, unsure if its just Morse being Morse, or if he's trying to choose words too carefully and getting nowhere. "What do you want?"

"Just, I'm..."

Luckily, no one is paying him any attention, and he teases, "are you calling to let me know you're okay?"

"Yes." It sounds relieved, message delivered, and Peter can't help a quirk of a smile. He sort of meant it as a joke, but if Morse has called just for that...

"Are you coming back tonight?"

"Yes."

"See you here tomorrow?"

“I 'spect so.”

“I'll want the full story then.”

There's a slight hitch in the silence, as if Morse wanted to say something but stopped himself. “Right,” is the only reply, until its followed up by a faint click and dead air. Peter sets the phone back in its cradle, and stares down at his notes until he can control his face.

Okay then. Back to work.

–

In the end, its not until everything settles down again that they have a minute to themselves. Peter drags Morse to the pub – never a difficult job – but chooses the bird and baby. Central enough, but not a copper place. He doesn't want prying ears, or any of the city boys to see him and come over with a pint and a spare chair. Morse's presence is usually enough to keep most people away, but he'd still rather not risk interruption.

He waits until they're both seated, pints in hand and first gulps drunk. “The hospital, the other day, when you were with that woman. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I'd just had a smoke.”

“Okay.”

“It sounded... tense. What was it?”

“Oh,” Morse tilts his head. “You know.”

Peter shakes his. He doesn't. Whatever they'd been talking about – he doesn't think its something he's butted up against in his life.

“She was the mother of someone I used to know. Scarcely seems important now.”

“She treated you like something she stepped in.” Morse glares, but Peter just shrugs. “Its true. Not deserved,” he adds quietly. “Not sure how you take every chance to rail at Thursday and even Bright, but keep it together with some witch.”

“I was engaged to her daughter.” Peter almost chokes on a mouthful of beer. He swallows hurriedly. “It didn't work out. Obviously. She... left me. It was... why I left Oxford.” It's not a secret that Morse didn't complete his degree, but Peter had always assumed he just got bored of it. Or bored of the structure and tradition. Not – not heartbreak. It doesn't feel like it fits, somehow, with what he knows of Morse. He can't imagine Morse proposing, married, settled down.

Although he supposes the penchant for doomed love opera makes more sense now.

“Caroline was always like that. But I loved Susan. And Susan's father, Edgar – he was in the hospital – he was a good man.”

“Was?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry.” They drink in silence. “Sounds like Dad was an outlier.” Morse looks at him quizzically. “Mum is a witch. Susan's an idiot.” Morse cracks a smile and Peter relaxes.

“Hardly. I'm not the biggest catch.”

“Don't start fishing with me, you know I can't stand ya. Besides, that's what you've got Ms Hicks for.”

Morse rolls his eyes. “Is this your subtle way of raking over my entire private life?”

“Well you still haven't explained Leamington-”

Morse's face falls and he grabs Peter's arm, before letting it go just as quickly, covering his movement with a gulp of beer. “Same again?” he asks, standing with his empty glass. Peter nods, and Morse heads to the bar.

That was certainly something. And not something with Monica Hicks, if he had to guess. He watches warily as Morse walks two pints over too carefully, and takes his time sitting down. He leans closer than before, like they're in some spy novel.

“This can't go any further.” Peter nods once, sharply. “Miss Thursday.”

“In Leaming-”

“Yes. I found her.”

Found her. Just like that. Just took the whole of England and found a lost girl in his spare time, like its easy.

“Is she okay?”

“Yes... no. Yes.”

“_Morse_.” He cares about Joan. Maybe their date never went anywhere, and maybe there's a pit in his stomach at the thought of Morse visiting Joan, the secrets, the intimacy, when he remembers the look on his face the day she upped and left, but he does care.

“She's taken up with a married man.”

The pit dissolves, and he winces, taking a sip of beer to mask sick relief that she and Morse didn't- didn't. “That's...” he trails off, not sure what to say. Its scandalous, but its not that unusual any more. More shameful, perhaps, for it being Joan. She could do so much better.

They sit in silence for a while, staring out at the other pub-goers.

“I don’t suppose...” Morse tilts his head a certain way, hand brushing Peter's leg under the table as he smirks a little, and the meaning – come home with me – hits Peter like a blow to the stomach. He does chokes this time, setting down his glass and coughing.

“No,” he forces out as soon as he can breathe. Before he’d had chance to think, but his brain is a mess of Susan, of Monica, of Joan, and he ignores the way Morse shutters because it’s right. He’s running all over the bloody country chasing skirts and that’s fine, if he wants to do that.

He should do that, really. They both should. It'd be a better life, for all that Morse seems able to make a drama of it. He thinks of Hope, how she dropped hints about America that he'd pretended went over his head, too wrapped up in Morse being back, and the job feeling good again, Blenheim Vale finally put to rest. She'll be gone now, but there are other girls. He just needs to get back out there. Stop hanging around the pubs and drinking in his flat, and get down the bingo or the dance hall.

Morse leaves, sullen, and Peter finishes his pint. Then orders another.

**Harvest**

Bright's not been back five minutes before they get the call about a body out on County's patch, and everything swings back into place like he's never been away. The whole crew head out as there's not a lot on otherwise, and Peter can't help but laugh when DeBryn says they've all come all this way for a bog mummy. At least its a nice morning, and he manages to coordinate cars so he's away from Morse. Its been a week since the pub, since Morse spilled all about Joan and then tipped him the wink like they'd just rock up at one of their houses, like they just _do_ that. He's still not sure what to say.

Oh, they get by all right on the everyday stuff. He wouldn't even think Morse had noticed the cold shoulder if it wasn't for the occasional look when Peter high tails it from the room rather than be left alone with him.

But he's trying to be normal. Trying to be friends. They'd almost got there before they complicated it all, and he's sure they can get back to it. So he says yes when Strange organises a pub night out, and grins when it turns out to be a quiz, because their team has Morse, DeBryn and Trewlove, which is pretty much a dream team and means he can just eat crisps and let them get on with it. Except Morse has a face like a slapped arse throughout, petulant at the considerable lack of classics or history questions. It's oddly lowbrow for Oxford, and Peter has fun arguing with Strange on the sports questions, helping Team Themis (thanks, Morse) finish a respectable third.

DeBryn offers Shirley a lift home because of the rain, and it leaves the three of them to walk. Peter smokes a soggy cigarette, keeping it lit through willpower and a sheltering cupped hand alone. He also maps out his steps, making sure to keep Strange between him and Morse like a chip-eating bouncer. It makes it easier to avoid Morse's eye when they reach his corner, and peel off for home instead of risking significant looks making silent plans. He stops just out of sight though. Morse's is closer, the rain is persistent, and the booze has him feeling brave, reckless. It would be easy, he could just push Morse inside his flat and peel them both out of wet clothes...

But Morse wants Joan. Or Monica, or any number of other faceless women. And once the case is done, he's going to head out and find himself a girl of his own.

He's just picked up his pace when he hears Strange again, using his confidential voice, and it freezes him to the spot. They must be walking slowly, to still be in earshot, but they're also not being quiet; they think Peter left and there's no one else on the street in this weather. Peter's ears prick, and his feet turn around, creeping back to where they split paths.

London. His cigarette burns his fingers and he drops it, stifling a yelp.

Morse could leave. Job waiting and ready.

He has a sudden urge to run around the corner, make some kind of joke, steal Strange's chips and break it all up, like the offer will disappear if the conversation does. He'd find some way of grabbing on to Morse that made sense, that wouldn't tip Strange off. But... perhaps its for the best, he realises, the thought a slow, cold drip down his collar. For Morse. He'd suggested it himself, hadn't he, back when the news of his sergeant's results first came through? He still believes Oxford would be the poorer for it, but Morse. He'd be better. He is better, he could do more, and if Oxford keeps him down he should break out.

London.

It would be a good opportunity.

It would make this easier, too. He scuffs a toe over his cigarette butt. If there's no Morse to mock through pub quizzes, and trade jibes with at crime scenes, he'd have time to find that girl. Morse would find someone. Not happily ever after, perhaps, but he's practised enough at finding a girl to worry over. Or Joan might leave the married guy, set up shop with him in the big smoke instead.

His stomach rolls. He should have had something more than greasy, salty crisps for dinner.

He looks up, the street empty, Morse and Strange both long gone. His shoes are starting to let in water. He kicks a nearby pebble and turns for home.

–

“Did you hear?”

Sergeant Martin, who mans the station's front desk, is a gossip. Peter dislikes him for it, but he can't deny that he's sometimes a good source of information, and he's definitely someone to keep on side if you can, so he stops while he shrugs out of his coat.

“Hear what?” It'd been a hell of a bus ride in, and he just wants to get upstairs and make a cup of tea.

“Break-in at Constable Morse's flat-”

“What?”

“Yeah, got the whole team down there. Bit of an embarrassment really, a copper's place, isn't it? He should have changed the locks. They need to solve this one or they'll look-”

“Right, thanks.”

It doesn't really need him to attend – when he gets to the upstairs he finds Strange has already headed out, and Trewlove is on the scene as well, more than enough manpower for a simple break-in – but he signs out a car and makes his way over anyway. The door is open, and there are coppers crawling all over Morse's things, while the man himself stands in the middle with his arms crossed. The lamps are knocked over and - he swallows - the stack of records has gone.

"Oh all right, Jakes? You didn't need to come, we've got it under control." Strange has his notebook out as he talks, jotting down what's missing.

"Yeah, I know." He picks his way across the living room, resting one hand on the back of the familiar chair as support. "I was passing, thought I'd drop in." He looks up at Morse. "We'll get them,” he says, an empty reassurance based on no actual knowledge, given he's just got here. “Don't worry."

Morse nods, and he seems so calm – how can he be so calm? The man flies off the handle at minor inconveniences at the best of times, but now that his home – his privacy – has been invaded (once by the burglars and now, again, by this lot, traipsing around like its any other scene, and its making Peter's skin crawl, seeing them nosing about in a place where he – where they – look, he just has certain memories here, okay?). But Morse just shrugs it off. Peter glances around, and spots a familiar photograph on the mantelpiece; a small boy and a woman, black and white. He breathes a silent sigh of relief that it escaped the carnage. Its worthless, of course, but all too often people are deliberately cruel.

“Welcome to doss at mine, 'til you get yourself straight," Strange says, and Peter's eyes flick to Morse. He's looking back, a little smile and a refusal to Strange, that he'd rather get on with the clean-up. Peter imagines offering his own place, the two of them playing house. He's got a sofa for an air of respectability but he knows it would go unused, that he'd be able to wrap around Morse under his covers, that there would be a _reason_ for it, just for a while. He can't do it now. But maybe Morse will just turn up this evening, he must know Peter won't turn him away. Not when he's got nowhere to go but a ransacked flat.

Or maybe, he thinks later that evening as the sun fades from the sky and no knock comes, he'll activate his damn martyr complex and kip amongst the ruins of his belongings.

-

"Good night's sleep?" He catches Morse in the office the next morning, bags under his eyes and holding what looks to be a mug of coffee, rather than his usual tea. He just grunts in return, and Peter's annoyance slips away. He steps closer under the pretence of grabbing the milk. "You could have come over," he adds softly, accidentally pouring too much into his tea and turning it a sickly pale colour.

"Too much to do." Morse gulps his coffee and winces, abandoning the mug on the drainer. "I was trying till eight to find a way into the power plant. They're sending me round in bloody circles. I can't decide if its deliberate or sheer incompetence."

"Probably a mix of both." Peter grabs Morse's mug and drinks the coffee instead of his ruined tea. It's strong and bitter, almost burnt tasting, and he dumps a couple of spoons of sugar in after one swig. "Why don't you ask Frazil? Play the press card."

Morse raises an eyebrow, but whether its at the suggestion or the beverage theft, Peter's not sure. He stirs and drops the spoon in the sink; the coffee is much more palatable now, and he downs half of it, offering the final mouthfuls back to Morse, who grins and accepts. "Thanks," he says, swallowing before pouring the dregs away. "I'll try that."

-

It's deathly quiet in the office. Morse headed out to see Frazil and hasn't come back, must be interviewing every bloody farmer in the county, and Thursday's gone off god knows where, so that leaves him holding the fort. Strange is a good cop but he still needs direction, unwilling or unable to work alone like Morse prefers, so Peter steps in as pseudo-inspector and dispatches him down to the college to talk to the old physicist again. He tries calling Thursday's car phone. No answer.

God, the clock is _crawling_. He can practically hear it tick, each one hanging in the stuffy air like dust motes. He's abandoned his jacket and tie - no one around to complain - and splits his attention between poking through the meagre evidence they've collected, hoping anything will jump out, and clock watching.

Sod it, he thinks, when it finally strikes five. He doesn't care if none of the others are back, his shift's over.

He heads home and spruces himself up. He wouldn't normally go out in the middle of a case, but he's been given nothing to do and he has nowhere else to be, and this is the first time he's left work on time in weeks. He shaves, brushes his teeth and hair, and drags out his spiffiest outfit which hasn't seen daylight since he went dancing with Hope. It's a touch too warm for the weather, but he pulls on the shirt and trousers anyway, and finishes up with a pat of aftershave. Its a while since he looked in the mirror for anything other than a once-over before work. He looks good.

It would be all too easy to go hang out down the pub, but as he's made an effort he makes a little more, and takes the longer route round to the dance hall. That's the point of this, isn't it? Meet a girl. Someone to take out. Maybe something more.

Its still quiet when he arrives, too early really, and he leans on the bar with a pint to soothe his nerves. He's sure he used to be good at this. Before Morse got sent down, and he spent every waking hour worrying about out how to pull him out again. Before he came back, and Peter started watching brown curls and blue eyes across the office. A group of girls totter in on their heels and he adjusts his stance, lengthening out - he knows what works for him and how to show himself off - some of the motions are coming back to him.

"Hey good looking," a pretty blonde says, elbows on the bar next to him. She's done up with her hair in curls and a short red dress. She looks like a modern day Marilyn. "Fancy buying me a drink?" She's way out of his league, but she might have a friend, so he turns on a smile.

"Anything for a lady," he answers, motioning to the bartender as the band starts playing.

It turns out she does have a friend; she has multiple friends. They're hard to keep track of at first, milling around him like some kind of alcohol dispenser, but he hasn't been out in a while so he lets them lighten his wallet. They're good fun, for all that he can't keep them straight, and he dances with each of them in turn until the place starts to fill up and they meander away, attaching themselves to better looking blokes. One - her name might have been Madeline, or Miriam - winks at him over the shoulder of her most recent dance partner and he laughs, raising his vodka and lime in salute. It's roasting in the hall, with the movement of too many bodies, so he knocks back his drink before heading outside for a breath of air.

"Got a light?"

"Sure," he flicks on his lighter and holds it out, before lighting one for himself.

"Tracy."

"Peter."

"I'm sorry about Michelle."

He takes a drag, and watches her mirror the action. "Michelle?" She's leaning against the wall, no care for her dress, and her grip on her cigarette is relaxed and languid.

"Red hair, green dress."

Ah. Madeline or Miriam. "Nothing to apologise for."

"I don't know, she was kind of leading you on. I know you bought her at least two drinks."

He shrugs. "We had a dance or two. She's a good mover."

"Unlike you," she laughs, and he looks at her, affronted. "You move like a chicken," she clarifies, with a smile cute enough to ease some of the sting.

"Oh really?"

"Definitely. Very poultry-like. It's the neck, I think."

He drops his cigarette and grinds it out under a heel. "Perhaps you want to bring me up to scratch?"

"Ohhh, I see, it's like that. It's all a ploy; you get girls to dance with you because they think they can teach you." She stubs her butt on the wall and drops it. "Very clever bird boy." He holds out a hand, offering, and with a sigh she takes it. "Lead on then."

By the end of the night he's practically dripping in sweat, but he feels good - looser than he's been in a long time, and not just because of the booze. Its a rush to be around new people he's not investigating, and Tracy is both a forgiving dancer and full of sparky jibes. When she tips her head up to his and leans in close, he kisses her, holding her by the waist, and she lets him guide her into a corner, and deepen the kiss. She's too short, he thinks, and soft where there should be sharpness, but he could get used to it. He runs a hand into her hair and it gets caught, knotted from the exertion, but she laughs as she untangles him. He asks for her number before she heads back to her friends, and she writes it on a piece of paper from her purse, sealing it with a cheeky smile and a press of lipsticked lips. He folds it carefully.

Yes, he thinks, as he saunters home through moonlit streets, too broke now even for a bag of chips. This could work.

-

When the call comes the next day, he feels like they may as well all have been twiddling their damn thumbs on this investigation and left it all to Morse. While they've been spinning wheels going nowhere, it turns out he's not only got into the power station, but found Laxman's jacket and now his car, the overachieving sod. They all head to the farm, many eyes better than one (although that's debatable, when one set is Morse's and there's no body to get in the way and put him off his stride), and pick around. 

“I've been to Leamington.”

He freezes, half in the barn and half out, then slips further into the shadows. He can't be seen eavesdropping, but equally he can't avoid Morse and Thursday too obviously in case it looks like he knows what's going on. Because Thursday will forgive Morse most things – and doesn’t seem too angry – but he wouldn't like Peter knowing Joan's whereabouts before he did. Morse had promised to keep it to himself. And he did. With everyone but Peter.

“You shoulda said something.”

“What could I have said?”

“That you'd seen her, that she was all right.” All right to a point, at least, Peter thinks, pretending to investigate the car's tyre tread. Perhaps Thursday hadn't clocked the married man, although it seems unlikely, for a copper. 

“Wasn't my place.”

“Wasn't your place to go looking for her, but you still did, didn't you?” There's a tense silence, and he gives up on the tyre and runs a hand under the wheel arch instead. It comes away grimy. “Well,” Thursday continues. “Maybe we both had a wasted trip.”

Thursday dispatches Morse, and he can't follow now. He hovers around the boot end until Thursday yells for him, then organises transport of the car into evidence.

–

“Definitely him?”

Peter's hanging back – he's wearing decent shoes, he doesn't need to step in the wrong place and end up ankle deep in bog – and Morse grimaces but nods. “DeBryn's certain. Dental records.” Thursday comes over to join them, and Peter offers to drive the three of them over to the village. It's almost a relief to finally have a body – its officially murder now – and its high time they put this one to bed.

They're interviewing Mrs Levin, and if Peter was less professional he'd be rolling his eyes at the way Morse smiles at her. But then a siren echoes through the valley, and people all around check wristwatches. “It's very early,” comments Mrs Levin, and his stomach sinks. In his experience, there's no such thing as coincidence. Something's going on at the plant.

They sprint to the car, and he finds himself shoved towards the back. Much as he hates the idea of being in the kid's seat, he can admit to himself (silently, of course) that Morse is the better driver. He understands cars, not afraid to treat it roughly and open it up, and he gets them from the village to the power plant in no time. By the time they're through the gate and screeching to a stop, Thursday's half out the car and shouting instructions.

“Jakes, get everyone out. Morse, you go that way. I'll head in there.”

Peter runs to the nearby office, but everyone's well trained, and the skeleton desk staff have already evacuated. He catches up with them hovering around the back car park, and motions them on, further away, before heading into the plant itself. It's dark and empty, alarms blaring, and he nearly has a heart attack when he turns a corner and runs into Thursday, gun out.

“It's Warren, the street preacher. He's got a grenade, trying to blow the place up.” 

He nods wordlessly and they split up, taking a row each. He's careful to be light on his feet, all too aware he's unarmed and there's a madman running around with an incendiary device, but when he hears Morse's voice he doubles back without question. He rounds the corner just in time to see a grenade sail through the air and bounce on the ground and Morse – fucking _Morse_ – leap after it, _pick it up_ and slam it in a barrel. To see him blown through the air towards him, the look on his face – just a millisecond before the blast sends him careening backwards too, knocked off his feet.

His ears ring, but he scrambles upwards, off-balance, and trips the few feet to where Morse curls on the ground. He hits the floor knees first.

“Morse!” He might be yelling, he's not sure. Morse squirms, looking at him with blank, unfocused eyes, and he grips him by the shoulders. There's blood on his face, a gash near the temple, and Peter yanks him up as Thursday slaps cuffs on Warren. Morse leans on him heavily as they stumble outside, two bookends keeping each other upright, and collapse on a bench. Other people arrive, and they should probably be sitting further apart than this, but there's nothing he can do about it now – neither of them are entirely with it, anyway. A free pass, he thinks, not quite able to move himself away. Besides, Morse would probably keel over. He took the worst of it, that's for sure.

But his eyes start to clear as that damn dog barks endlessly, and someone has found him a handkerchief; the blood is mostly dabbed away. They're both still pretty deaf, and he thinks Thursday might be too, going by the amount of nodding and pointing he's doing as he tries to direct the scene. Then Morse gets that look on his face like he's solved something.

And he has, of course he has. He's been knocked halfway to Sunday and he's still slotted together all the pieces like a child's jigsaw. He should be headed to hospital but no, instead he's jabbing a finger up at the fields. Peter sighs, but as he's gathering his last reserves of energy, Thursday assigns him to Warren instead. And Peter has to just watch the two of them go.

-

He hangs around the station for as long as he can after booking Warren in, but Bright frowns at him from across the room until eventually he outright orders him home for a kip. He hasn't seen Morse, and when he collapses on his bed, the worry follows him into dreams. They wake him up, disorientated each time and reaching for a body that shouldn't be there anyway. As day breaks he thinks of going looking for him, but his head is banging and he's more tired than he's ever been. It's all catching up with him, and even listening to the radio feels like a step too far. He lies still instead, drifting in and out and only going so far as to stagger to the kitchen for water.

Finally, on Sunday night, things even out so that he doesn’t feel nauseous when he walks. Morse isn't at his flat, or any of the usual pubs, but he refuses to accept the notion that his head injury might have been serious enough to keep him in hospital, despite the twenty four hours he's just passed. On the off chance, he swings by the station. It's dark and deserted, but then he spots the figure standing over a desk, and something settles in his chest.

His footsteps sound loud on the linoleum now his hearing is back to normal. Morse turns to look at him.

“I'm – I'm a sergeant.”

That must be the letter. To think, it only took saving most of Oxfordshire from a nuclear disaster for the brass to give Morse a pass. “I'll have to remember that.” Peter leans, arms folded, on the door frame. There's a box as well, familiar shape and colour from just after he nearly got blown up on that supermarket case. He knows what it would feel like in his hand. He smiles, but stifles it as quickly as possible. “Medal too. Couldn't let me have anything, could you?”

“Nope.” Morse smirks, sitting on the edge of his desk and mirroring Peter' pose. “No more bossing me around.”

“Yeah, you wish. I've got seniority.” That look on his face. He wants to... he wants something he shouldn't be thinking about at all, but certainly not in the station, something brought back up by watching Morse's fingers scrabble at bomb dust. He should be thinking that about Tracy, not Morse, but its like she's a character in a book and Morse is here in front of him, marvellous technicolor. “I _meant_,” he stresses, “that to get promoted you just have to save Queen and Country, and jump on a few grenades.”

Morse laughs, a short, sharp bark that melds humour with fear and takes them both by surprise. “No, no more bombs,” he covers, too late. “Just sit your Inspector exam.” He picks up the letter, and runs his fingers down the sides, runs his eyes over the text, like he can't quite believe it. Peter wonders if he's also remembering the last time they almost went sky high, and Peter came out of it, late, streaked in dirt, suit ruined.

Inspector Jakes has a ring to it though. One day.

“I was going to go to London.”

“Are you still?”

He looks up at Peter, as if he'd guessed this wasn't news. “Doesn't seem much point now.”

Morse pockets the letter and warrant card, and after a moment's hesitation, the medal too. They stumble out of the station together, and Peter ignores the way he follows Morse home. He's just walking, that's all, taking the night air, and when he gets back to his he'll call Tracy. But Morse is as close to giddy as he gets, and clutches tight to his arm as he undoes the lock on his door. He pulls him through to the sitting room, like they're going to break out the celebratory whiskey.

They both know they're not breaking out the whiskey.

He sheds his coat, because Morse is staying, and he's a sergeant now. Morse slings his jacket over a chair. It's all still new enough that his heart races, just being here, and as Morse steps close he can feel an echoing rhythm. Its familiar enough that he knows the steps though; hands in hair - God, that hair - Morse's on his shoulders, then back, then lower. He gives in; he knows what works and what doesn't, and how to back Morse up through his flat and into his bedroom.

How not to talk, not now, because that breaks the spell.

But afterwards, its softer. Morse lets him light up as long as opens a window, and they press together under the covers to keep warm as the room chills around them. They talk, weirdly – about nothing – inconsequential nonsense, silly secrets, gossip. Things they might not _want_ other people to hear, but nothing that couldn't be said on a walk by the river, or over a pint. He avoids even the thought of Joan, unwilling to mar the calm. He doesn't mention Tracy.

Later, after they've fallen asleep in a tangled mess, Peter is awoken by Morse – a nightmare, followed by movement as he disentangles himself from sheets. When he doesn't return, Peter gets up too, and finds him sat in the armchair in his still-looted lounge. Neither of them say anything, and Peter is about to offer to leave, when Morse tilts his head at the whiskey bottle. An invitation.

He considers keeping him company on one of the hard-backed chairs, but he's feeling uncharitable and pushes instead into the comfort of Morse's armchair. Shuts out of his mind how they're essentially cuddling, wriggling until they work out a way to fit two grown men that doesn't leave bony bits digging into awkward places. After a while, Morse speaks into the darkness. Some of its new; stories of home and grenades that let his own darkness answer back. Some of its familiar; heartbreak and fear and the sharp clang of prison doors. But mostly he lets himself drift off again, nose pressed to a warm throat, his dreams peppered with the smell of Morse's whiskey.

–

He should have known it was too good to be true. That waking up in the morning, spine contorted, to a cup of tea and toast would be the highlight of the day. Because they spend the rest of it on paperwork, although Morse disappears for an hour or two around lunch while Peter works through, existing on coffee and biscuits. They're filing redacted reports of last week's mess of a case, and the lying makes they both snippy. Morse drags him off to the pub as soon as they can get away with it, and something sinks in Peter's stomach when he swings them into the bird and baby. The place has unpleasant connotations now, that's all.

But Morse is staying, and a sergeant, he reminds himself. He drinks from the pint Morse places in front of him, and rubs the bridge of his nose. All the staring at typeface today has sent him cross-eyed.

“She's in hospital.”

“Who is?”

“Joan.”

It's so out of left-field that it takes him a moment to process, to mentally move Joan Thursday from Leamington Spa, married man, to Oxford general. “What?! You said she was fine-”

“Well she was. Sort of.”

He suddenly feels over-caffeinated, and digs through his pockets to find a cigarette. He clamps it between his lips, the temptation there to bite instead. Perhaps he should smoke a pipe.

“He hit her. She ran away. Came to me. I – I -”

The pit in his stomach is back, the beer sour in his throat. He's not sure if its worry for Joan, anger at the way Morse is telling the story, all circled up and back around and why is she in the _hospital_, Morse, he hit her that hard? Or those three words. 'Came to me'.

“I asked her to marry me.”

He chokes on his cigarette, smoke watering his eyes. He downs half his pint to clear his throat, wishing it were something stronger, and keeps his hand wrapped round the glass.

“Right?” It comes out wispy and hoarse.

“She said no. Turns out... turns out she was -” he edges round the table to lean close, so close Peter can smell him. This looks off, this is dangerous, if anyone were to look over here they'd suspect – but he wants to laugh, because he knows what they'd _think_, and this is one time its not _true_ – “pregnant,” he continues in an undertone. “Had a miscarriage. She didn't want the Thursdays to know, must have given the hospital my number somehow. They called me.”

A sick little twisting in his gut wants to know when, set out a time-line of events. Had Morse pulled Peter into his flat, jubilation and sex and secrets spilled in the night – then got up and asked Joan to be his wife? Or the other way around? Before or after he rushed to her bedside? He's not sure what's worse, but he has a sneaking suspicion it was before, because even if Morse works quick, its a hell of a lot to fit into a lunchtime. Morse had pulled him inside, pulled him into bed, fresh from a damn _proposal -_

Answers won't help anyway, will just solidify the hurt into a hard stone. And he doesn’t have the right, does he? They've never defined this. Its only been... god, three times. It feels like more.

It's so much to take in, that when Morse leans back Peter just echoes him in silence. “Jesus Morse,” he breathes finally, almost double-taking. He sounds so normal.

Morse shrugs, and the gesture is so familiar something twinges. Because now he can picture married Morse, with Joan at his side rather than Susan. They'd be happy. Joan would look radiant in white, and Morse would be smiling, managing to make a wedding suit look untidy. They'd both be so lucky. He swallows.

“Maybe if you asked her again now...?”

Morse looks considering, but shakes his head. “No, I don't think... I don't think she'd want me. And I'm not keen to have a third failure.” He smiles ruefully, but Peter feels like his face has frozen, and hides it with another drag on his cigarette, followed by a pull of beer. This is fine, he thinks. Morse has his girls. And he has Tracy, he remembers.

It was only three times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this seems choppy... its obviously quite closely matched to the episode arcs, which is new to me and a bit of a change from chapter 1. Does it work? Or you do prefer the 'highlights reel' style of chapter 1?
> 
> I've been over this and over this so many times that I've now developed a sort of blindness to it – so if I have any continuity errors, weird characterisation leaps or bits that make you go 'huh?', please do let me know! I will try and fix them. Also just shout if you think the rating needs upping, or if I've missed any tags. Also this is my third attempt at posting this chapter. Seems if you try and edit tags after adding but not posting a chapter, your draft gets deleted :(
> 
> Up next will be an interlude between seasons 4 and 5, which is almost ready, and then I have to tackle six episodes of S5...


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The space between seasons 4 and 5.

Peter stares at Tracy's number often enough that the paper's creases become worn and soft. He has the sequence memorised, but never manages to put it into a phone. He's busy, is all. Then September slips into October, and then November before he really notices, and by that point its beyond too late to call.

He'd realised, one autumn day as the sun slipped away, that quite by accident, Morse had become the only person who knows all of his secrets. And he looks at him just the same. He doesn't keep him at arms length, and he doesn't treat him like glass. He doesn't see deviant and he doesn't see victim. He pushes and needles and bullies and honestly, pisses him right off – but he also gets Peter to fight back, in a way he never could before. And then he stands there and takes it, a little glint in his eye that says – this is fun. Fight more. Fight me.

Sometimes it burns out and sometimes it spirals, and its an even split these days as to where its going to end up -

In genuine anger released, never physical but no need for fists when they both know exactly where to hit with words – well practised at deep, slicing blows that send them storming apart for days only to return, sheepish, with half-mumbled apologies upon realising that some of their pain has been lanced.

Or laughter, bright and infectious as one of them reaches too far for an insult and tips from hurt into parody, leaving them helpless in a state where Morse flushes and Peter's eyes water and they feed off each other while Thursday stares at them like they're from another planet.

Or the other one. The one where fight me becomes fuck me, when the only way to shut each other up is to stopper mouths with other activities, and they'll both gladly abandon everything in favour of sinking into this, so easy now, so difficult when there's no other excuse. How to reach out is a mystery unless they're clashing, and he wonders if that's why they're fighting so often, like back in those early days, and why they've got so good at it. If it was ever actually dislike, or always a different undercurrent neither of them would admit to.

He wonders what it'd be like, to sit on a sofa next to Morse and listen to the wireless of an evening, to turn to him when the programme ends and cup his face. To drop a kiss on his lips and lay him out, peeling back layers with soft hands to the sound of jazz in the background, and stroke instead of scratch for once. If Morse would allow it; either the softness or the jazz.

It feels forbidden to even think of it.

–

Before he knows it, its Christmas. And Morse spent the last one inside, so even though he oscillates wildly on what this is – they're not boyfriends after all – he wants to make sure he has a good one. He buys him a scarf and glove set because the bugger always looks bloody freezing in winter, and Morse gets him a record in return. He must have asked the girl in the shop, because its actually something decent.

Although they don't plan it, they end up together on Christmas day; two lost souls each with a Thursday family invitation declined. Peter wonders if Thursday would be so quick to offer if he knew the whole truth. The ex-dater and the spurned almost-fiancé of his bright-eyed daughter, as often as not tangled together beneath sweaty bedsheets.

Peter's saved up and bought himself a television, and Morse rolls his eyes at it but is happy enough to sit and eat the poor excuse for a roast Peter has rustled up while its on. He's no great shakes in the kitchen, but he has the impression Morse is worse, and the meat and potatoes are at least edible. The veg is a bit underdone. They make it through the Christmas quiz, a surprisingly good team given their divergent interests, and Peter anchors Morse in place for top of the pops with his feet and a large glass of whiskey. When the Queen comes on, Morse pushes his feet from his lap, pops up, and flicks off the set.

“Not a royalist, Morse?”

He just gets an eye roll and a rueful smile for his trouble, and Morse fetches the whiskey bottle. He tops up Peter's glass, and then sets the bottle aside.

“You not having any?”

Morse shakes his head.

“Its a Christmas miracle,” grumbles Peter, but in reality he doesn't want to drink alone. He raises his eyebrows as Morse – there's no other word for it – slinks over to him and settles in his lap. “Oh right, you're just stealing mine,” he remarks breathlessly, shocked, as Morse takes a mouthful of whiskey from Peter's glass and sets it on the side table.

This is new, he thinks, as Morse mouths at his neck. Its slow, and sensual, and there's no bite of temper here. He remembers his fantasy; this sofa and jazz on the wireless. But without any music he can hear the soft, wet sounds of Morse's mouth and the way his breathing hitches when Peter settles his hands on his hips.

He trails up to Peter's mouth, and the kiss is whiskey-tinged. It feels right. He wonders why this was ever difficult to reach out for, when now it's magically as simple as breathing, a give-take without anger. Peter tangles their tongues together, raking his fingers through Morse's hair and cupping his head to angle it to the side, deepening the kiss.

“All right?” asks Morse, pulling away and blinking slowly. Peter nods, wordless, and guides him back in. He's used to leaving bruises; scrapes and bites he's sculpted by degrees. Now he softens, and strokes his thumbs feather-light in the crease of Morse's thighs. Morse shifts above him, the start of a grind disguised as settling in, and Peter smiles, feeling it mirrored by Morse. He drags Morse closer, starting a circling that makes them both groan.

Normally he doesn't like to be restrained, hates the loss of control, but he's somehow okay with Morse weighing him down like this. He feels grounded, even as he breaks the kiss and pants.

“Want to move to the bedroom?” Morse asks.

Maybe. Yes? No? He's not sure any more. He just stares up at Morse from centimetres away, catching his lip in his teeth and letting go again, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth, then sucking along his jawline. He can't decide. He can feel Morse, a hot hard line that presses into him.

“Okay,” says Morse, keeping the rhythm going. Peter can't help but think momentarily of Hope, her hints about a new life out on the range, how Peter would make a great cowboy – and think she had completely the wrong copper.

His movements soon become jagged, though, his breathing harsher. Until it hitches for a whole different reason, Morse tensing then slumping above him and burying his face in Peter's neck. Peter wraps his arms around Morse, holding him round the lower back, and mouths at his racing pulse, then down under his collar. He's warm, just a hint of sweat and salt.

“Your turn.”

Morse unzips his trousers and Peter whines at the change in pressure. He should probably feel embarrassed, but whether its the big meal or the booze or just the safe, comforting press of Morse above him, he doesn't care. He shakes as Morse pulls once, twice, three times, and spills over the edge.

They breathe together, Morse taking out a handkerchief and cleaning off his hand. Peter blushes, which is ridiculous, this isn't any kind of first time, except it kind of is, because its the middle of the afternoon and Morse is still astride him like any of this is normal.

“What now?” he asks, and Peter tries to gather together what's left of his brain.

“There's a film on channel two.”

“What's it about?”

“Oh, you'll hate it,” he teases. “_Doctor in Love_.”

Morse snorts. “Sounds terrible.”

Peter hesitates, then taps Morse on the thigh. He'd like to stay but – well, he kind of needs to change his trousers. Morse flops to one side, and Peter escapes to his bedroom, wondering what will face him when he re-emerges. He hears Morse head into the loo, then the door swing open again and the light click off.

By the time he's stopped hiding, the telly's on, and there are chicken sandwiches made. Morse has found his stash of ale and poured them both glasses. He's sprawled on the sofa, and when Peter takes a seat, he tips into his side.

The film is awful. Somehow, it doesn't really matter.

–

The new year blends into late January, and then frosts thaw and February dawns wet and windy. Everyone spends as much time inside as possible, and the only dead bodies they get called to are an old woman keeled over in her living room – a case even Morse can't find anything suspicious about – and a husband stabbed in a kitchen. That one's easy enough to solve. The wife hadn't even got rid of the knife, just stuffed it back in the cutlery drawer.

Him and Morse settle into a strange form of... well, almost domesticity. Like Christmas changed something, the fights drop away and Morse shows up on his doorstep a couple of times a week. They watch Star Trek together, curled up on the sofa, and sometimes Peter cooks and other times they eat toast. There are no sweet nothings, but any bites now come from curved lips and are followed by soothing kisses and licks.

It feels precious, and delicate, and Peter doesn't want to bruise what they have but he can't stop second-guessing. Can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Morse?” he asks hesitantly one evening, feeling the atmosphere shatter at the thought of what he's going to say. Or maybe that's just him.

“Mmm?” Morse has been lying with his head in Peter's lap, and Peter had been staring, trying to resist the urge to stroke a hand through that hair. For some reason it feels okay when its tempered by deep kisses. Not when – his eyes flick to the television, although he's not been watching at all – _Life with Cooper_ is on. Now he twists, until he's looking up. He's loose-limbed and relaxed, and it suits him. Such a contrast to the tense impatience he embodies so often in the world outside.

“This is... nice,” Peter adds lamely.

“Yeah.”

Blue eyes keep looking at him, and he tries again. “What we're... doing.” A quizzical look. “Is this...?” He closes his eyes momentarily; a long blink. “Are we... together?” He feels Morse shift, as if looking around in confusion, and resists the urge to smack himself in the face. He realises suddenly that they don't know any young couples, no one to use as an example. And he can't ask if Morse is his _boyfriend_, like some crush-crazed teenager. That word doesn't fit. But they're not just seeing each other either; he's done that before, taking girls out, and this cosy comfort feels like more.

He doesn't think its just the fact that he can't take Morse out.

“Like – like Thursday. And Mrs Thursday. Not married! Obviously, but... something.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawns softly. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“And there's...” It feels like pulling his own teeth out, but if he doesn't _check_, if he doesn't _make sure,_ it's going to gnaw at him. “There's no one else... for me, I mean.” He thinks of Tracy's number, and the way he'd dug it out from his wallet and dropped it in the bin on Boxing Day morning, along with the chicken carcass and veg peelings.

Morse sits up, and twists around until he's only centimetres away. “Me either,” he says softly, dropping a kiss on Peter's lips.

“Right,” Peter says, when he pulls back. “Okay.”

Morse lies back down again, and Peter slowly rests his right hand on his head, stroking lightly. Morse hums, wriggling until he's comfortable and pushing his head up into the motion like a cat. Peter smiles, and starts combing his fingers through curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A happy end to a chapter? :O
> 
> And yes, I did research actual 1967 Christmas TV schedules for this. Because you know. Accuracy. Highly important in a fic like this.


End file.
